


enough poison for two

by vysorens



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Enemies With Benefits, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysorens/pseuds/vysorens
Summary: She snaps, “you talk enough for the both of us,” the words barely making it out as her traitorous mind plays his lazy stretch on repeat.“There she is,” he says, so pleased that Riley feels like she just lost a game she didn’t even know she was playing.
Relationships: Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Kudos: 29





	enough poison for two

**Author's Note:**

> it's pure clownery luv. riley hates this man and will kill him but first she gotta spiral and make poor choices.

Riley can’t stand to look at him when he sleeps. 

It softens him out, blurs his edges. His cruelty and righteousness are buried beneath parted lips and the gentle fan of his lashes against his cheeks. He’s unguarded and it cracks something inside of Riley wide open, something bloody and scared that she had long thought buried. She wants to crawl into his arms. She wants to take her pistol from her holster and bury a bullet in his chest. Put them both out of their fucking misery. 

She does neither. 

“Seed,” she says, and it comes out like a sigh, so quiet it barely rises over the sound of Holland Valley nightlife coming through the cracked window.

He shifts, jostles the sheet enough that it slips further down his bare chest. It settles low because sometimes Riley’s life is just a giant joke for God. The jut of his hipbones are painted in sharp relief against the moonlight illuminating the room. She can’t help but stare. Can’t stop the way her eyes immediately start to follow the flow of his tattoos, the lines of his muscles. 

“Enjoying the view, deputy?” 

Riley can’t contain her flinch at the sudden rumble of his voice. Or the sudden heat in her cheeks as his words register. She’s never been so thankful for the lack of light. He’d never let her live a fucking _blush_ down. 

It’s always like this with him. Blushing and uncertainty. Violence and tenderness so twisted together Riley can’t tell whether she wants the warm curve of his arm or the cruel press of his teeth. It’s like there’s no steady ground beneath her, nowhere stable to plant her feet. Being with him feels like rock climbing with no ropes. One misstep and everything ends bloody and broken.

“Ah,” he says, his spine curving as he stretches, and fuck, she can’t _look_ at him, “no talking tonight, then?”

She snaps, “you talk enough for the both of us,” the words barely making it out as her traitorous mind plays his lazy stretch on repeat. 

“There she is,” he says, so pleased that Riley feels like she just lost a game she didn’t even know she was playing. 

She doesn’t look when she hears the rustle of sheets as he stands, keeps her gaze locked on some generic farmland painting he has hanging on the wall. It’s pretty, but bland. Mass produced probably. Bought for its rustic charm. She thinks maybe if she focuses hard enough on the lumpy little cow grazing the field that she can ignore the line of warmth standing too close for comfort.

“Deputy,” he says, voice so soft, like the scratch of pen against paper. Probably signing Riley’s fucking death warrant. 

She flinches when his hands settle on her hips—so warm and _big—_ and he uses it to his advantage. Pulls her closer until they’re pressed chest to chest. She can’t help but shiver. Lets herself believe that it’s just the breeze from the open window at her back when he’s so warm at her front. 

“Riley.”

She snaps her head around to glare at him. “ _Don’t._ ”

He huffs out a laugh. “Apologies. Are we still playing pretend, hm?”

Her jaw aches with how tightly it’s clenched. She wrecked two of his silos and liberated an outpost today. She had expected him to be furious. It was always so much worse when he was in a good mood. 

Her fury doesn’t stop her traitorous body from leaning into the palm of his hand when he cups her cheek. He smiles down at her. It’s soft, a small curve to his full lips. It feels—reassuring. She doesn’t smile back but the tightness of her jaw relents. He claims it as a victory, somehow pulling her body even more tightly against him. It forces her head back if she wants to hold his bright gaze. He’s so annoying tall, so broad in the shoulders, and he has her pulled so close that her entire field of view is just _him._

Something in her settles when it’s just the two of them like this. When she can pretend for a minute that they are other people. There’s something comforting in how he surrounds her, something safe.

His thumb shifts until it’s pressed against her lower lip. An unspoken question. 

“I can’t—” _can’t make the first move, don’t make me do it, just take it._

He tilts his head in an imitation of confusion. “Can’t what?”

The bastard can’t ever just make it easy, can’t ever let it go unspoken. 

“You know what I want.” 

He hums, “I think you overestimate me. You are remarkably hard to read.” The hand on her hip slips under her shirt and he brushes his fingertips over the bared skin. 

God, she fucking _hates_ him. 

“John,” she says, “kiss me.” 

His eyes are so bright, moving frantically over her face, amazed at his victory. 

“Say it again.”

It’s easier now. The anger and resistance slipped away with the first utterance. There’s nothing left for her to lose. So she says it again, “John,” her own personal damnation. 

He chases the taste of his name off her lips. 


End file.
